


Your Hands Are Gilded Cages

by afterandalasia



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Extremely Dubious Consent, F/F, Femslash February, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn Battle, Power Imbalance, Seduction, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 16:15:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1175138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afterandalasia/pseuds/afterandalasia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"But you do know, Sansa, what it is to be lonely, do you not? What it is to ache for just a human touch?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Hands Are Gilded Cages

**Author's Note:**

> No explicit mention is made of Sansa's age, but as this is canon-era it can be assumed that she is underage.
> 
> For the Porn Battle prompts: submission, weakness, dubcon, tempt, shame

A Stark should not feel fear, let alone allow it to show.  
  
It is hard for Sansa to remember the words, though, as she kneels on the floor of the Queen's chamber, feeling underdressed and exposed in her shift. Cersei had said so smoothly that _we are all ladies here, are we not?_ , yet Sansa could not help noticing that the Queen remained fully dressed, eating grapes with delicate movements, her eyes remaining fixed on Sansa. Devouring.  
  
She kneels for so long that her knees begin to ache. One by one, Cersei's teeth break the grapes apart with a pop of juices. Sansa does not dare to raise her eyes as she speaks.  
  
"Is there something you would have me do, Your Majesty?"  
  
It does not earn a reply from Cersei, just another of those slow knife-edged smiles, then the Queen rises to her feet and walks round until she is behind Sansa. More than anything, Sansa wants to look, but she does not dare. What if there is a knife in the Queen's hand? Would it be better, or worse, to have a moment to fear and make peace before the end came?  
  
Sound - Sansa flinched, but it was only cloth hitting the floor. She risked the slightest glance over her shoulder to see Cersei stepping coolly free of her gown, bare skin almost golden in the sunlight, then a hand wraps around her chin and forces her to look forwards as she hears - and feels - Cersei kneel down behind her.  
  
She does not want to admit that she has missed being touched. The hand wrapped around her jaw is iron-strong, but the one which brushes her hair from her shoulders and skates across them, lighter than the fabric which covers her, is... barely unpleasant. Cersei's fingers slide lower, into the curve of her back, then almost reverently up the dip of her spine.  
  
Sansa gasps as lips brush against her shoulder, and she goes to turn her head but the strength of Cersei's hand stops her. "What are you doing?" she whispers, feeling very foolish and very vulnerable.  
  
"How little you know, little dove," Cersei murmurs, lips almost at Sansa's ear so that her breath brushed her cheek. She is leaning so close that Sansa can feel the press of breasts against her back, feel them shift as Cersei breathes and feel the vibration of her words. "Sometimes I'm not sure that you even realise what a fresh young flower you are. So fine that I cannot think of a single wolf- or fish-related comparison that would be fair to you."  
  
Her voice is warm in a way that Sansa has never heard before, although it carries the dangerous edge beneath it still. Sansa's knees start to shake, though she does her best to still them, and to keep her hands folded demurely in her lap, as Cersei strokes the line of her hipbone and then runs a hand down her thigh.  
  
"But you do know, Sansa," and it is so _strange_ to hear her voice from Cersei's lips, stranger perhaps than the fact that those lips are pressed to the back of her neck, than the fact that Cersei's hand is slipping beneath her shift and slowly tracing up her inner thigh, "what it is to be lonely, do you not? What it is to ache just for a human touch?"  
  
Her fingers ghost higher; Sansa lets out a little whimper and feels heat flood through her cheeks and her belly alike. Cersei's lips brush against her neck, warm and damp.  
  
"What it is to need," Cersei whispers, and Sansa closes her eyes, at once very far away and very caught up in her body. "To yearn."  
  
Her fingers touch Sansa in places that she has not touched herself, at least not in _this_ way, and Sansa's chest aches with the gasps (she is sure that they are gasps, and not sobs) that she contains. She feels the scrape of teeth on her skin.  
  
"Would you like me to show you, little dove?"  
  
She will never admit that she whispers _yes_.


End file.
